Incompletion
by Damashi
Summary: It was a duel of honor...a duel of finality. Draco ponders what is missing as his world comes to an end.


Comments at the end.

Disclaimer: I have abducted Draco. JKR can keep the rest of the series.

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The exchange of hexes, spells, and curses flashed with a long-pent up fury, creating a deadly, ever changing rainbow that flickered on the grim faces of the combatants. It had been half a decade since Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had abandoned the scholarly pursuits required at Hogwarts, and almost as long since they had taken time to meet face to face.

It seemed all at once like a moment of eternity since they had directly interacted, but neither gave that a thought as they concentrated on the duel at hand, blocking, dodging, and casting. It was a duel for finality, one that could decide the end or allow it to continue. If Draco won, the Dark Lord's grip on power would be complete; if Draco lost, the One and the Dark Lord would contend for supremacy face to face. Death Eaters, purebloods, Malfoys…none of them fail, and Draco was all of them.

Neither of the two used Avada Kedavra though it was easily within their capacities. It was an unspoken agreement between them that it would be a duel of honor, which was more than either youth had allowed the other before. They spoke not at all, their concentration fully on the spells at hand, their eyes ever scrutinizing each other for the slightest movement betraying which curse might come next. Both grew weary but persisted, staring each other down as their deserted surroundings grew bleak and charred and crackled with magic.

It took only a moment for the decisive blow to fall. One rogue jet of scarlet light slipped past Draco's weakened shield charm and alighted on the middle of his chest, melting his cloak's clasp and passing through the sternum to rest within. He didn't recognize the curse as he felt his insides shatter, resignation falling over his pale face.

Coldness wrapped itself around him as he fell, his legs folding under him as the sky tilted and settled in front of him, as distant as perfection. Then came the pain, digging its searing claws into his flesh, violently driving away the cold, curling his hands into fists with the intensity. His breath caught halfway out of his battered lungs, finally coming free and slipping from his mouth with an escort of blood. More of the bitter liquid welled up in his mouth, trickling from the side of his mouth and drawing a crimson streak down his slowly whitening cheek. Everything felt broken as an inky mist drew about the periphery of his vision, but he still saw the silhouette of his killer drawing near to his fallen form.

Then Potter's face came into clear view, leaning over him with a pained expression that, for once, held no malice. Something reminiscent of regret glimmered in his eyes as he looked into the face of his rival, already masked in death. He said nothing, though; there were no words for a time like this. There was no apology to make and no triumph to crow; it had been an honorable fight and both had thought they were prepared to face the fair consequences.

Something stirred within Draco as even Potter's face began to swim and blur; perhaps it was his soul loosening itself to escape, but he didn't think so. It was an unnamable feeling of emptiness, of something left undone. He couldn't die yet; something was missing, but he couldn't think what.

--

After finishing serving his time at Hogwarts (as he had always mentally put it), he had spent two years under the tutelage of several of the Dark Lord's most favored Death Eaters, learning all the things the teachers at Hogwarts had specifically _not_ taught to him. It was more than torture, kill, maim, of course; the Dark Lord wanted followers with cunning and deft skill, not simple brutes (though those could come in handy, too, seeing as how he kept Crabbe and Goyle in his service.) Draco studied psychology with voracity, both that of wizards and Muggles alike; after all, the better one knows a person's mind, the easier it is to break it beyond repair. A superior Death Eater also displays innovative qualities, so Draco spent some of his little spare time developing hexes and a few full on curses; his biggest accomplishment, he felt, was his Dismemberment Curse, but Avada Kedavra was just as fast and far less messy, so he rarely used it.

He trained his body and reflexes as well, running self-made obstacle courses in busy Muggle cities on the latest model of broom and never once being seen. He would run for hours through the forests and fields of the Malfoy estate, moving swiftly and yet so precisely that he left no trace or footprint where he passed. He liked the feeling of the wind blowing his flaxen hair from his face, washing it from his vision and taking his troubles away. Here there was no shame in fleeing—for he felt he was fleeing the burdens of the family and the expectations of the Dark Lord when he ran—and those around him only had approval for his endurance when he came home after dark, nearly asleep even as he entered the mansion, his clothes sodden with sweat.

All the weight of the world came falling back onto him as soon as he trudged in the door, of course.

There were social matters to tend to as well. Concerned with continuing the pureblood lines, Draco's father had wanted him to marry as soon as he came of age at eighteen, but his mother had felt her son too young for such a responsibility. Lucius conceded after much debate; Draco was allowed to wait until shortly after his nineteenth birthday to wed.

It was all arranged by the families, of course. Draco had always rather assumed he would end up married to Pansy Parkinson; she was a respectable pureblood and had been his ever-present Slytherin ally during their schooldays. He did not love her, of course (it would have been inconvenient), but he had thought they might serve the Dark Lord well enough together.

As it was, he found his parents had seen to the betrothal and everything else when he was only a year old. Her name was Sagitta—he had to look it up in the family records because he couldn't remember ever hearing of her before—and, if he correctly interpreted the tangled genealogies and such, she was a not-so-distant cousin of his. When he asked his mother about his discovery, she merely laughed.

"Don't be silly, Draco." He gave a half-sigh of relief and stopped abruptly as she continued. "That's no reason to call of the wedding; keeping the lines pure is a very important matter."

So the entities called his parents married Draco off to a complete stranger with all the formality the ceremony could possibly require and an unspoken admonition of merely "Be fruitful and multiply." Indeed, Draco's bride was well bred to be a trophy wife. She was as pale as her husband with long black hair, a slender figure, and a dignified bearing.

Draco couldn't have cared less. From the start, he could not force himself to trust her; she seemed far too perfect, as if she had everything to hide and a single flawless mask to show all who cared to look. She was like Saint Potter, in a way—not with overbearing self-righteousness, he decided, but in the way she seemed almost untouchable. She was his wife, though, and he knew they had to make life together at least tolerable, so he did not allow himself to hate her. She gave him no reason to do so, anyways, but remained a flat, impersonal being in his life.

They regarded each other with a mutual cool indifference and found few reasons to be alone together during the day. He had his jobs at the Ministry, working his connections in as deeply as his father had and taking orders from the Dark Lord. She managed the household and, he found out a couple years later, oversaw an extensive spy network throughout most Pureblood homes and in influential circles everywhere. Draco made good use of the opportunities it offered and distinctly enjoyed giving off the impression that he always knew what was happening in private matters.

They were faithful to each other too (though Draco made it a point to keep in touch with Pansy, who had married Goyle instead and ruled him mercilessly), knowing their service to the Dark Lord would be badly compromised by suspicion between them. Let the world think the Malfoys sneered in the face of ethics. It was true, actually, but where practicality concurred with ethics, the Malfoys would occasionally defy the world's views.

The two even had a son together, out of duty rather than love, but they still fulfilled the expectations of their families. Draco, however, wasn't home when his child came into the world. In fact, he was in Lithuania on business for the Dark Lord and didn't even hear about the birth until three weeks after it had taken place. He didn't come home until his son was a full month old. His wife did not complain about his behavior or condone it; she merely accepted it as fact. As it was, she herself barely paid much attention to the newborn, but left him to the ministrations of a carefully picked and well-paid nanny.

They had another child, a girl, a year and a half later, and this time Draco was home for five days two weeks after his daughter arrived. It was a monumental event, the longest he had been home in at least a year, and he did not care for a single moment of it. Children were supposed to be a cause for pride and rejoicing, but he found himself uncomfortable in their presence. His wife he could tolerate; she was quiet as a sepulcher and unobtrusively submissive, but the children wailed and chattered and tumbled about and, worst of all, pleaded for affection.

They didn't beg vocally for his love, of course, but even Draco could see it in the way his son's wide eyes followed him when they were near, or how he seemed to want to climb into his father's lap and just sit there contentedly. His daughter, still so young, cried when he was near and refused to let him hold her as if he were a malevolent stranger. Perhaps he should have spent more time with them, but he was a busy man and he did not find his family the least fulfilling.

Besides, he did not have the slightest notion as to how to be a father. He had never had an example after which to pattern his actions.

Times took an unpleasant downturn, though, as the war rose in a dangerous crescendo, slipping into the farthest reaches of people's lives. Draco's father was killed in a battle with several Aurors and his mother committed suicide shortly afterwards. He barely slept at all any more and went home even more rarely, trying to fill his father's and his own positions as the Dark Lord demanded ever more service. He grew paranoid, seeing the plots he had woven against Potter's allies turned on himself at every turn, even though he had only been doing his duty.

He heard only just in time of a plan to raid his own mansion, but was not able to move his family fast enough. His three-month-old daughter was killed in the ensuing battle. The loss had hurt much more than he had expected, and he couldn't understand at all why. He couldn't even remember the child's name when he thought about it, and he could count the times he had seen her on one hand. But an unexplainable pain lingered all the same.

He pushed on, telling himself that if he fulfilled the Dark Lord's expectations, he would be satisfied, fulfilled…happy.

--

It hit him then.

Harry had leaned over the fallen body of his rival, not quite believing he had just killed _the_ Draco Malfoy, when the dying youth's hands shot out and gripped his collar with surprising strength.

Fire flared momentarily in Draco's eyes as he looked up at Harry, his lips moving feebly. "Potter…"

"Yes?" he replied after a moment's uncertain pause.

"Potter…have you known…" he coughed blood again, his face clenching with pain "…known what it's like to be happy?" He finished with his voice surprisingly strong as if determined to be heard.

The question caught Harry by surprise, but he stopped to think. Life had hardly been friendly, he thought, remembering those dreaded summers at the Dursleys, the losses, the fights, and the pain. He thought of the times at school when he had laughed with his friends, but realized they had always been overshadowed by a quiet, ever present pain since the beginning of it all with the deaths of his parents.

Draco was waiting, holding on to the frayed edges of life.

Harry slowly shook his head. "No," he said simply. The grip on his collar relaxed.

Draco could feel the frigid darkness enveloping him as he closed his tired eyes. Maybe it was all right, then, to die here and now; if Saint Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the one everyone loved and worshipped and doted on had not known happiness, perhaps it never had existed at all.

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End notes: For those with OC-phobia; I don't do it very often, but I wanted a realistic match with Draco that would sort of add to the you-can't-really-control-anything feeling. Also, I am fully aware that the final battle will take place within the seventh book, leaving no time for the characters to grow up so much in the interim, but this is how the story came to me.


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